There are several sites in South Orange, the town where I grew up, where the Manhattan skyline shimmers like Las Vegas in the Nevada desert. For instance, when driving down Overhill Road, the Twin Towers ominously appear between husky oak trees and Victorian homes, teasing and taunting like schoolyard bullies. “Ha ha. You’re stuck in the suburbs while the city that never sleeps is just 15 miles away,” their very presence seems to say.
As a child – long before I heard of Sartre or the concept existential angst – I routinely sang along with Petula Clark, “When you’re alone and life is making you lonely you can always go, downtown.”
My suburban malaise was amplified when I turned 17. As the owner of a recently acquired driver’s license, I was suddenly responsible for chauffeuring my father, who worked in the city, to and from the train station. Witnessing the swarm of Burberry trench coats explode from the train five nights a week was simply too much for my recalcitrant teen eyes. Each night, as I searched for my father from our four-door sedan, I vowed that when I graduated college I would move to Manhattan and never commute a day in my life.
After a couple of minor detours on my road to New York four years ago, I finally made Manhattan my home. But, as fate would have it, the job I found was not in the city but here at the Hudson Reporter. Excited for an opportunity to write, I swallowed my pride, purchased a briefcase and begrudgingly became a commuter. Of course, I quickly learned that reverse commuting is an entirely “other” experience.
Weekday mornings I exit my studio apartment and make my way to the Christopher Street PATH station where an empty bench always awaits me. After exchanging pleasantries with the Port Authority maintenance employee who patrols the station – “How’s the weather?” he asks. “Bright and sunny,” I say. – I take my seat, sip my coffee and wait patiently for my train to arrive. Unlike conventional commuters, who are crammed into trains like claustrophobic sardines, those of us who make the reverse commute can often enjoy an entire PATH car to ourselves.
Of course, nothing’s perfect, and occasionally reverse commuting can get a bit hairy. For instance, negotiating your way down the tortuous Christopher Street station stairwell while a stampede of soporific suburban dwellers struggles to escape can be frustrating if you haven’t had your first cup of coffee. And dodging the deluge of strung-out nine-to-fivers spilling out of the train at the end of the day is never any fun. But these seem like small fees to pay for an otherwise pleasant journey.
So, after two years of back-and-forth and back-and-forth and back-and-forth, I have finally come to appreciate my reverse commute. Now, when I look across the river at the Twin Towers, which no longer seem so ominous, I find myself laughing at them. “Ha ha. You’re stuck in the city, while I enjoy a well deserved break from the chaos.” – JoAnne Steglitz